


when you walked into the room just then, it's like the sun came out

by thewinterose



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot, POV Jon Snow, Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension, jon and sansa acting as kitn and qitn because thats my jam, jon repeatedly describes sansa as radiant because hes weird, jon snow has a lot of feelings and all of them are for sansa, season 6 centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 03:44:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15282837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewinterose/pseuds/thewinterose
Summary: Sansa blinks and a lovely flush works its way up her cheeks. She bites down on her bottom lip nervously, and Jon pretends not to notice how lovely the contrast of the white of her teeth looks against the petal pink of her lips. She looks lovely. Everything about her is lovely. Everything about her is as radiant as the sun.“Did you truly, Jon? See me, I mean.”--In which Jon and Sansa reclaim Winterfell and Jon discovers something that he may have been hiding from himself since they were children.





	when you walked into the room just then, it's like the sun came out

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Long time no see! I suck, I know but I got this little story idea in my head after reading too much jonsa meta and I just had to write something. It's based on one of my favorite theories that Jon may have subconsciously had feelings for Sansa since they were kids. I hope you all enjoy and leave reviews! I live for that shit. Also the fic title is taken from the song Start of Time by Gabrielle Aplin. I highly recommend it.

“How are the grain storages?”

The question startles Jon out of his reverie and he looks up quickly, his head pounding and his eyes bleary from staring at numbers for the gods know how long.

His sister stands in front of him, her hands clasped together and her gaze expectant, if not a bit amused. It takes Jon a moment to process her question.

“Oh!” He exclaims, hurriedly shifting through his leger and some flyaway parchment. “I’m sorry, Sansa, I don’t mean to seem distracted.”

Sansa laughs unexpectedly at that, her lovely face radiant with a smile, while Jon pretends to ignore the twist in his stomach at the musicality of her happiness. _It has been so long since she’s laughed like that_ , he thinks as he tries to smooth his features into passivity. For all that Sansa has humbled herself since their childhood, she never took too well to having people laugh at her.

Jon finally locates the parchment with the numbers of grain storages on them. To his shame, he did take a peek at them earlier, but he put it aside in favor of looking over the number of men they had prepared for the war. In truth, he did honestly care about running his kingdom in the traditional way that his father and Lady Catelyn did before, such as pouring over legers and counting the amount of coin in their coffers. However, every time he attempts to sit down and go over how much food they have or whether or not they have enough warm clothes, an image of the Night King’s frozen, empty blue gaze probing him at Hardhome has him mindlessly formulating battle strategies instead.

By the slight twist of her mouth, Sansa seems to have deduced his oversight herself. It would unnerve him, if she were anyone else, how easily she can read him.

Sansa grabs the paper from his outstretched hand and brings it close, her blue eyes scanning down the page. Her mouth purses within a few seconds, and Jon tries not to read in too much as to why he was staring at her lips in the first place.

“What is it?” he asks, shaking off his strange thoughts. “Is it bad?”

Sansa looks up from the paper, a red eyebrow arched as if in accusation.

“I don’t know, Your Grace,” she answers smoothly, sitting down gracefully in the chair directly in front of him. “Shouldn’t you already know?”

Jon opens his mouth, looking for something to say before giving up quickly, shaking his head in quiet defeat. It’s strange, honestly, how off balance he finds himself in front of his half-sister. It was never too hard to manipulate or lie to the likes of Alliser Thorne when he was Lord Commander of the Nights Watch. But now, whenever he is in front of Sansa, he finds himself tongue-tied more often than not.

It brings up strange memories from their childhood, and reminds him painfully of when he was that awkward green boy who could hardly find it in himself to mutter a greeting to his own _sister_ for the gods’ sake. And stranger still, was how this embarrassing phenomenon only seemed to be happening in increasing regularity. Jon is still clueless as to why her presence used to affect him so. As to why it still does.

Sansa, unaware of his internal conflict, simply laughs again, the breathy giggles just as happy and beautiful as the first. Her lovely face just as radiant.

“Oh, Jon,” she says lightly, her chest heaving from attempting to catch her breath. “No matter how old you are or grow to be, teasing you never ceases to be fun!”

Jon cracks a smile, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. “As long as you’re happy, Sansa, then you can tease me all you like,” he says with amusement, but his voice was soft with sincerity.

Her musical giggles abruptly stop, and Jon watches as a random flush colors high on her cheeks. Somehow, even in her embarrassment, her beauty is still striking.

“They’re fine,” she says suddenly, after a few seconds of awkward silence.

Jon furrows his brow in confusion, puzzled by the turn in conversation. In truth, he spent the last few seconds admiring the pink that highlighted the contours of her face and how well it looked against the auburn of her loose hair. He likes it when she wears her hair down.

“What’s fine?” He asks and Sansa rolls her eyes childishly. She pushes the forgotten parchment in his direction with a decisive flick of her delicate wrist.

“The grain storages,” she states. “Obviously with Theon invading and the Bolton’s burning everything, our food situation is not ideal but it’s not unmanageable either. I would still advice reaching out to the Tyrell’s though. They’re the epicenter of all the grain in the country.”

Jon nods approvingly. “Aye, I’m aware. I remember Father saying something about that. How do you suppose we reach out to them then?” Jon pauses, and then delicately continues. “With everything that occurred in Kings Landing…” He trails off, carefully watching Sansa’s face.

He knows that she had a friend in the capitol, the girl that was Joffrey’s and then Tommen’s queen. He also knows that Cersei Lannister murdered them all in the Sept of Baelor with caches of wildfire.

If Sansa is hurt then she doesn’t show it, because she simply shrugs, something that she would have never done as a child. “I’m not quite sure about that yet. Olenna Tyrell is a shrewd woman, but she’s also grieving. I honestly doubt she’s looking to form any alliances right now that don’t pertain to enacting revenge on Cersei,” she explains. “And for as much as I dislike Cersei and think we should deal with her.” Sansa sends a sharp look to Jon. “I know that we have a war and a long winter to prepare for.”

Jon nods and fights off a wince, knowing that last statement was aimed at him specifically. “Until then we should ration according to our needs and see how much more we can get from the glass gardens and the farmers,” Jon decides and Sansa hums approvingly.

“See?” she says teasingly. “I knew I could be a good influence on you.”

Jon laughs wryly. “Where will I ever be without you,” he states blandly to which Sansa laughs again.

“Probably counting the number of swords we have, you poor soul. I doubt your skills in arithmetic have improved much.”

Jon huffs, incredulous. “As if you have any room to speak. I don’t remember you being a master at your numbers either.”

Sansa cracks a smile at his teasing. “No, but I was proficient at dancing as you are well aware. I never stepped on anyone’s toes until they were throbbing with pain unlike a _certain_ someone that I know.” She sends him a pointed look and Jon feels his neck heat up with shame.

He remembers that day well. Septa Mordane had called him, Theon, and Robb into a room and had them practice dancing with Sansa and her gaggle of friends while Arya pouted in the corner.

He had been paired with Sansa and had done horribly, squashing her toes and muttering apologies every few seconds. Even she, who rarely showed her displeasure with anyone who was not Arya, was practically begging her Septa for a partner change. It was the only time he had ever danced with Sansa, and suffice to say, it was not a shining moment in his life.

He looks away from her, his lips drawn tight with embarrassment, determined not to laugh at a memory that seems so far away now, so innocent.

Instead, Jon carelessly says, “I’m surprised you remember that.”

Sansa tilts her head, a confused smile gracing her lovely features. “What do you mean, Jon? Why wouldn’t I remember?” She asks.

He turns back to face her, an old insecurity reaching up and wrapping itself tightly around his throat. He suddenly feels very small again under her probing gaze. Very small, and green, and six and ten name days once again.

“You never saw me,” he says simply, and tries to force years of meaning into that statement.

Sansa’s confusion deepens and her brow furrows. “Saw you? What do you- oh,” she interrupts herself, realization dawning on her.

Jon watches as shame descends upon her, clouding her previously happy temperament, and a self-loathing so potent its tangible, slams into him, robbing him of any good feeling.

He stands up and walks quickly over to her, his hands raised to placate her. He kneels in front of her.

“Sansa,” he says, his voice tinged with regret and desperation. “Sansa, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, my love.”

The endearment must catch them both by surprise, because Sansa snaps her eyes towards his and Jon ignores the flush that colors his face. Silence stretches between them for a few seconds before Jon attempts to speak again. He raises his hands towards her and gently takes her own, sliding his rough fingers between her soft ones.

“I’m sorry, Sansa. Truly I am. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Sansa scoffs at his words and turns her head away slightly, but her hands stay intertwined with his, bringing Jon an inordinate amount of relief, to his puzzlement.

“I know you say that it doesn’t bother you, Jon, but I was awful. I ignored you for no reason for years, _for years_ , even though you were my own brother, I made you feel like a stranger in your own home,” she says, her voice heavy with self-loathing and guilt.

Jon wishes to disappear, to vanish to a place where he may never cause her pain again, but obviously he cannot do that. He finds himself at a loss of what to do, of what to say to reassure her, because there truly is nothing for her to apologize for. Their petty behavior as children have no bearing on them now. Jon loves Sansa. He loves her without reservation, without thought, because Sansa’s gentle heart and her mere presence comforts him now more than anything else in the world can. Whatever childish feelings of abandonment he felt have no effect on what he feels for her now. His radiant Sansa.

“Hey, hey,” he coos softly, playfully tugging at her fingers. “I was being thoughtless. Whatever happened when we were children doesn’t hurt me. How can it? When you are worth so much more to me now?”

Sansa glances up at him, a slight smile tugging at her full lips, her blue eyes soft and warm on his. Once again, Jon finds himself marveling on how someone can be so singularly beautiful.

She sighs, the warmth of it ghosting over Jon’s face. “I know that it doesn’t bother you, Jon, truly I do. But it hurts me knowing that there were times that you felt like I didn’t care for you. Which, despite everything, I did, Jon. I always did.” She finishes her declaration by squeezing his fingers in reassurance, as if her actions could further prove her words. As if her eyes didn’t already speak the truth.

Jon smiles and moves his hand upwards to cup her cheek, feeling the silken softness of it beneath the roughness of his callused and burned palm. He then trails his hand downwards absentmindedly and tugs at a wayward auburn curl, enraptured by the way it springs back into place. Another thing about Sansa that is effortlessly lovely, this fiery hair of hers. In front of him, under his hands, Sansa hardly seems to breathe.

Jon finally raises his eyes towards hers and locks his gaze on her, a soft, warm, and yet strangely torrential feeling spreading through his body. He keeps his focus on her.

“I won’t lie and say that I was never hurt, Sansa, but truthfully, I was always hurt as a child. I always found a way to be mad at the world and everyone in it. I don’t blame you for not seeing me,” he says lightly, hoping to dismiss her worries.

He moves to pull away from her but Sansa abruptly reaches forward, bringing his hand back into her own, curling her smaller fingers around his large ones. “But that isn’t true, Jon,” she says, her voice just on the side of breathless. “I did see you. Maybe not always, but I did.”

Jon’s breath leaves his body in one fell swoop and the elation and his confusion over his elation war within his mind, making him feel dizzy. He regains his bearings as best as he can.

“I- I always saw you too, Sansa,” he confesses, his voice just as breathless as her own, just a touch lower.

Sansa blinks and a lovely flush works its way up her cheeks. She bites down on her bottom lip nervously, and Jon pretends not to notice how lovely the contrast of the white of her teeth looks against the petal pink of her lips. She looks lovely. Everything about her is lovely. Everything about her is as radiant as the sun.

“Did you truly, Jon? See me, I mean.”

Jon is suddenly transported back to that fateful day a thousand years ago. He sees the cluttered and cramped spaces of Winterfell’s courtyard, filled with servants and knights and his father’s own men. He can see Arya walk past with Prince Tommen, and Robb with the young and besotted Princess Myrcella, and he sees Sansa too. Sansa on the arm of arrogant Prince Joffrey, a boy he hated then for petty reasons. A boy he hated for how he pursed his lips.

But truthfully he just sees his pretty half-sister. Sansa in the velvet blue dress he _knows_ she stitched and embroidered herself. Sansa, with the pretty auburn hair that shone like fire under the setting sun. Sansa, who he thought looked radiant. Sansa, who still today, with her pretty auburn curls and her pink lips and her blue eyes, is still radiant.

Jon stands quickly, moving away from his sister awkwardly, jerkily, as if he has no control of his limbs.

Sansa looks up at him, her gaze startled, but still beautiful, and Jon _needs_ to go. He needs to leave or else he’ll continue to notice things and he’ll be back to that boy of six and ten name days who saw radiance in everything his little half-sister ever did.

“Of course, Sansa,” he says breathlessly, stepping back further. He looks purposefully towards the door.

“Excuse me, my lady. I must leave. I forgot that I had a meeting with Ser Davos and I should go now.”

Sansa stares at him silently, her brows furrowed and her gaze suspicious, but she nods anyway. “Of course, Jon, I’ll just stay here. I should look over our legers anyway,” she says slowly and Jon nods once.

“Very well, Sansa. I’ll see you at dinner, my lady,” he says, moving out of the room.

He sees Sansa nod at his retreating form and return her gaze back to the papers on his desk, her face relaxing into her “lady of Winterfell” expression. Jon smothers the pride that erupts within him and practically runs down the hall, Ghost joining him as he rushes towards Davos’ chambers, his heart thudding furiously. Despite his quiet assurances towards himself, he still feels that tell-tale dread flare up in his chest, replacing the warmth that drifted in whenever Sansa was near him. Only one thought plagues his mind, as it always seems to now.

_I’m fucked._

 


End file.
